Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (93 page)

force greater than any even Oromis was capable of summoning. Eragon

retreated deep behind his own barriers, frantically reciting a scrap of dog-

gerel Oromis taught him to use in such predicaments:

Under a cold and empty winter sky

Stood a wee, small man with a silver sword.

He jumped and stabbed in a fevered frenzy,

Fighting the shadows massed before him. .

The siege on Eragon’s mind abated as Saphira and the red dragon

crashed together, two incandescent meteors colliding head-on. They

grappled, kicking each other’s bellies with their hind legs. Their talons

produced hideous screeches as they grated against Saphira’s armor and the

red dragon’s flat scales. The red dragon was smaller than Saphira, but

thicker in his legs and shoulders. He managed to kick her off for a mo-

ment, then they closed again, each struggling to get their jaws around the

other’s neck.

It was all Eragon could do to keep hold of Zar’roc as the dragons tum-

bled toward the ground, battering one another with terrible blows from

their feet and tails. No more than fifty yards above the Burning Plains,

Saphira and the red dragon disengaged, struggling to regain altitude. Once

she halted her descent, Saphira reared her head, like a snake about to

strike, and loosed a thick torrent of fire.

It never reached its destination; twelve feet from the red dragon, the

fire bifurcated and passed harmlessly on either side. Blast it, thought Er-

agon. Even as the red dragon opened its maw to retaliate, Eragon cried,

“Skölir nosu fra brisingr!” He was just in time. The conflagration swirled

around them but did not even scorch Saphira’s scales.

Now Saphira and the red dragon raced up through the striated smoke

into the clear, chill sky beyond, darting back and forth as they tried to

climb above their opponent. The red dragon nipped Saphira’s tail, and

she and Eragon yelped with shared pain. Panting from the effort, Saphira

executed a tight backward loop, ending up behind the dragon, who then

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pivoted to the left and tried to spiral up and over Saphira.

While the dragons dueled with increasingly complex acrobatics, Eragon

became aware of a disturbance on the Burning Plains: the spellcasters of

Du Vrangr Gata were beset by two new magicians from the Empire.

These magicians were far more powerful than those who had preceded

them. They had already killed one of Du Vrangr Gata and were battering

past the barriers of a second. Eragon heard Trianna scream with her mind,

Shadeslayer! You have to help us! We can’t stop them. They’ll kill all the

Varden. Help us, it’s the—

Her voice was lost to him as the Rider stabbed at his consciousness.

“This must end,” spat Eragon between clenched teeth as he strove to

withstand the onslaught. Over Saphira’s neck, he saw the red dragon dive

toward them, angling beneath Saphira. Eragon dared not open his mind

enough to talk with Saphira, so he said out loud, “Catch me!” With two

strokes of Zar’roc, he severed the straps around his legs and jumped off

Saphira’s back.

This is insane, thought Eragon. He laughed with giddy exhilaration as

the feeling of weightlessness took hold of him. The rush of air tore off his

helm and made his eyes water and sting. Releasing his shield, Eragon

spread out his arms and legs, as Oromis had taught him, in order to stabi-

lize his flight. Below, the steel-clad Rider noticed Eragon’s action. The red

dragon shied to Eragon’s left but could not evade him. Eragon lashed out

with Zar’roc as the dragon’s flank flashed by, and he felt the blade sink

into the creature’s hamstring before his momentum carried him past.

The dragon roared in agony.

The impact of the blow sent Eragon spinning up, down, and around. By

the time he managed to stop his rotation, he had plummeted through the

cloud cover and was heading toward a swift and fatal landing on the

Burning Plains. He could stop himself with magic if he had to, but it

would drain his last reserves of energy. He glanced over both his shoul-

ders. Come on, Saphira, where are you?

As if in answer, she dropped out of the foul smoke, her wings pressed

tight against her body. She swooped underneath him and opened her

wings a bit to slow her fall. Careful not to impale himself on one of her

spikes, Eragon maneuvered himself back into the saddle, welcoming the

return of gravity as she pulled out of the dive.

Never do that to me again, she snapped.

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He surveyed the steaming blood that laced Zar’roc’s blade. It worked,

didn’t it?

His satisfaction disappeared as he realized that his stunt had placed

Saphira at the mercy of the red dragon. He hurtled at her from above,

harrying her this way and that as he forced her toward the ground.

Saphira tried to maneuver out from under him, but every time she did,

he dove at her, biting and buffeting her with his wings in order to make

her change course.

The dragons twisted and lunged until their tongues lolled out of their

mouths, their tails drooped, and they gave up flapping and merely glided.

His mind once again closed to all contact, friendly or not, Eragon said

out loud, “Land, Saphira; it’s no good. I’ll fight him on the ground.”

With a grunt of weary resignation, Saphira descended to the nearest flat

open area, a small stone plateau set along the western edge of the Jiet

River. The water had turned red from the blood pouring into it from the

battle. Eragon jumped off Saphira once she alighted on the plateau and

tested his footing. It was smooth and hard, with nothing to trip on. He

nodded, pleased.

A few seconds later, the red dragon rushed by overhead and settled on

the opposite side of the plateau. He held his left hind leg off the ground

to avoid aggravating his wound: a long gash that nearly severed the mus-

cle. The dragon trembled his entire length, like an injured dog. He tried

to hop forward, then stopped and snarled at Eragon.

The enemy Rider unbuckled his legs and slid down the uninjured side

of his dragon. Then he walked around the dragon and examined his leg.

Eragon let him; he knew how much pain it would cause the man to see

the damage inflicted on his bonded partner. He waited too long, though,

for the Rider muttered a few indecipherable words, and within the span

of three seconds the dragon’s injury was healed.

Eragon shivered with fear. How could he do that so quickly, and with

such a short spell? Still, whoever he might be, the new Rider certainly

was not Galbatorix, whose dragon was black.

Eragon clung to that knowledge as he stepped forward to confront the

Rider. As they met in the center of the plateau, Saphira and the red

dragon circled in the background.

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The Rider grasped his sword with both hands and swung it over his

head toward Eragon, who lifted Zar’roc to defend himself. Their blades

collided with a burst of crimson sparks. Then Eragon shoved back his

opponent and started a complex series of blows. He stabbed and parried,

dancing on light feet as he forced the steel-clad Rider to retreat toward

the edge of the plateau.

When they reached the edge, the Rider held his ground, fending off Er-

agon’s attacks, no matter how clever. It’s as if he can anticipate my every

move, thought Eragon, frustrated. If he were rested, it would have been

easy for him to defeat the Rider, but as it was, he could make no head-

way. The Rider did not have the speed and strength of an elf, but his

technical skill was better than Vanir’s and as good as Eragon’s.

Eragon felt a touch of panic when his initial surge of energy began to

subside and he had accomplished nothing more than a slight scratch

across the Rider’s gleaming breastplate. The last reserves of power stored

in Zar’roc’s ruby and the belt of Beloth the Wise were only enough to

maintain his exertions for another minute. Then the Rider took a step

forward. Then another. And before Eragon knew it, they had returned to

the center of the plateau, where they stood facing each other, exchanging

blows.

Zar’roc grew so heavy in his hand, Eragon could barely lift it. His shoul-

der burned, he gasped for breath, and sweat poured off his face. Not even

his desire to avenge Hrothgar could help him to overcome his exhaus-

tion.

At last Eragon slipped and fell. Determined not to be killed lying down,

he rolled back onto his feet and stabbed at the Rider, who knocked aside

Zar’roc with a lazy flick of his wrist.

The way the Rider flourished his sword afterward—spinning it in a

quick circle by his side—suddenly seemed familiar to Eragon, as did all

his preceding swordsmanship. He stared with growing horror at his en-

emy’s hand-and-a-half sword, then back up at the eye slits of his mirrored

helm, and shouted, “I know you!”

He threw himself at the Rider, trapping both swords between their

bodies, hooked his fingers underneath the helm, and ripped it off. And

there in the center of the plateau, on the edge of the Burning Plains of

Alagaësia, stood Murtagh.

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INHERITANCE

Murtagh grinned. Then he said, “Thrysta vindr,” and a hard ball of air

coalesced between them and struck Eragon in the middle of his chest,

tossing him twenty feet across the plateau.

Eragon heard Saphira growl as he landed on his back. His vision flashed

red and white, then he curled into a ball and waited for the pain to re-

cede. Any delight he felt in Murtagh’s reappearance was overwhelmed by

the macabre circumstances of their meeting. A unstable mixture of

shock, confusion, and anger boiled within him.

Lowering his sword, Murtagh pointed at Eragon with his steel-encased

hand, curling every finger but his index into a spiny fist. “You never

would give up.”

A chill crept along Eragon’s spine, for he recognized the scene from his

premonition while rafting the Az Ragni to Hedarth: A man sprawled in

the clotted mud with a dented helm and bloody mail—his face concealed

behind an upthrown arm. An armored hand entered Eragon’s view and

pointed at the downed man with all the authority of fate itself. Past and fu-

ture had converged. Now Eragon’s doom would be decided.

Pushing himself to his feet, he coughed and said, “Murtagh. . how can

you be alive? I watched the Urgals drag you underground. I tried to scry

you but saw only darkness.”

Murtagh uttered a mirthless laugh. “You saw nothing, just as I saw

nothing the times I tried to scry you during my days in Urû’baen.”

“You died, though!” shouted Eragon, almost incoherent. “You died un-

der Farthen Dûr. Arya found your bloody clothes in the tunnels.”

A shadow darkened Murtagh’s face. “No, I did not die. It was the

Twins’ doing, Eragon. They took control of a group of Urgals and ar-

ranged the ambush in order to kill Ajihad and capture me. Then they en-

sorcelled me so I could not escape and spirited me off to Urû’baen.”

Eragon shook his head, unable to comprehend what had happened.

“But why did you agree to serve Galbatorix? You told me you hated him.

You told me—”

“Agree!” Murtagh laughed again, and this time his outburst contained

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an edge of madness. “I did not agree. First Galbatorix punished me for

spiting his years of protection during my upbringing in Urû’baen, for de-

fying his will and running away. Then he extracted everything I knew

about you, Saphira, and the Varden.”

“You betrayed us! I was mourning you, and you betrayed us!”

“I had no choice.”

“Ajihad was right to lock you up. He should have let you rot in your

cell, then none of this—”

“I had no choice!” snarled Murtagh. “And after Thorn hatched for me,

Galbatorix forced both of us to swear loyalty to him in the ancient lan-

guage. We cannot disobey him now.”

Pity and disgust welled inside of Eragon. “You have become your fa-

ther.”

A strange gleam leaped into Murtagh’s eyes. “No, not my father. I’m

stronger than Morzan ever was. Galbatorix taught me things about magic

you’ve never even dreamed of. .. Spells so powerful, the elves dare not ut-

ter them, cowards that they are. Words in the ancient language that were

lost until Galbatorix discovered them. Ways to manipulate energy. . Se-

crets, terrible secrets, that can destroy your enemies and fulfill all your

desires.”

Eragon thought back to some of Oromis’s lessons and retorted, “Things

that should remain secrets.”

“If you knew, you would not say that. Brom was a dabbler, nothing

more. And the elves, bah! All they can do is hide in their forest and wait

to be conquered.” Murtagh ran his eyes over Eragon. “You look like an elf

now. Did Islanzadí do that to you?” When Eragon remained silent,

Murtagh smiled and shrugged. “No matter. I’ll learn the truth soon

enough.” He stopped, frowned, then looked to the east.

Following his gaze, Eragon saw the Twins standing at the front of the

Empire, casting balls of energy into the midst of the Varden and the

dwarves. The curtains of smoke made it difficult to tell, but Eragon was